


Rubric

by S3anchaidh



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, British, Consensual Underage Sex, Drug Use, F/M, First Time, Historical, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mature Sexual Content, Mentions of Suicide, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Peter is a psychopath, Scott and Stiles are Brothers, Slow Burn, War Injuries, Work In Progress, World War II, Younger Peter, scott is older than stiles, very historically inaccurate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:07:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23645131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S3anchaidh/pseuds/S3anchaidh
Summary: Stiles and Scott are brothers, coming of age as World War 2 rages on. After their parents are killed in a bombing, they are forced to flee to the countryside to become labourers on one of the work farms. Peter Hale manages the farm on behalf of the army, and his nephew Derek oversees the workers. Stiles is captivated by Derek the moment he see's him, some intense pining ensues.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a PSA that I have NEVER written anything on here before, and I haven't written anything in literal years and I found this fanfiction that I wrote for a ROMANCE WRITING class I took and hid teen wolf characters in. I just reread the first 2 chapters and am weirdly desperate to find out how it ends...because its been so long since I wrote it. Also I only have an outline so prepare for it to take a downturn. Be gentle with me please, this will inevitably be a nightmare. I should probably stick to drawing. Also just a warning, I was trying to make this historically accurate to the original story which was plotted to have some pretty gross homophobia, but only from the outlying characters. So please be aware that this will very likely be in the story at some point...if I ever finish this. Also Stiles is underage (17) and Derek is 20. Let me know if I miss any tags or warnings and I will update.

Looking back, Stiles always wondered what would have happened if they had never gotten on that train. The summer before 1943 had been dry and this one had been drier and living in the grit that seemed to wear away at their bones was half of the reason they took that blind leap of faith. Stiles was the other half.

Listening to the click, click, click of the wheels as they spun against the track distracted him with a sense of rhythm that made his fingers tap the beat relentlessly. He hadn’t been built to sit still, his heart beating like a caged bird as the bodies and sounds seemed to press around him as they sped away from the only home he had ever known. Their town got smaller and smaller in the distance and without the press of his brothers arm against his own Stiles felt he would scream from the fear of it all. Closing his eyes, he tried to focus his thoughts instead of allowing the thousands of sensations that were pressing in through. The pads of his long fingers skimmed the fabric of his father’s jacket and his breath caught as they moved along the bumps in the finely coiled tweed. 

When he was four years old, he could remember his father sitting him on his knee and remarking how his spirit was too big for his body. That his soul belonged in a bear or wolf; one of the wild things. He uttered the words with a heavy mix of resignation and humour and Stiles remembers feeling the weight of the love behind them; so palpable he could taste it. 

The train lurched with a screech toppling bags that were filled to bursting as the bodies in the train pressed in closer, soldiers and families alike. They were heading north out of London, far away from the charred remains of their neighbourhoods and out to the rolling hills of the midlands. Half of the car was fleeing war, the other fleeing to it. Stiles and Scott had pulled themselves from the rubble of their family’s home and abandoned the city with everyone else who had nothing left. Not to war, not yet. Half of the boys their age had enlisted, already left and come back broken or in a wooden box and they couldn’t submit to it yet; not when it would be used as an escape. They would be killed long before they could bury their grief, and neither could stand to abandon the other.

The answer of their aunt’s letter had settled it for them or for Stiles at least. Seven members of their family had been wiped out at once, leaving only two who were scarcely considered men yet, who hadn’t yet learned how to face this world alone. So, despite having never met her, they weighed their options with a heaviness that was reserved for people older and harder than them; and they chose the thing least likely to break them. It was something to hold the sorrow at bay, at least for a time. 

Scott’s shoulder nudged at his, like a subtle reminder he was there, as if their bodies weren’t tightly packed onto a hard bench. The corner of Stiles’s mouth twitched up in a sad sort of smile as he returned the gesture, his eyes fixed determinedly on the small utility knife clutched between his fingers; the blade clicking open and closed. They had almost missed the train for this, and he closed his eyes at the visceral memory still making his heart pound.

Scott’s hand had wrapped around Stiles’s wrist as they had climbed off the bus at the train station that morning. It was as much an action of hurry as it was of reassurance for both boys. They had missed the first bus; Stiles having misplaced the knife and was driven near senseless on his quest to locate it. The boys hurried for the platform, squeezing past uniformed men and their families in the throes of farewell. It made Stiles’s stomach clench tightly and he stared straight ahead at his brother’s shoulders covered in their father’s best jacket. He couldn’t remember when Scott had become old enough to have it fit him so well. Their father had always seemed too broad, his reach so long, with a height that Stiles never imagined living up too.

The train whistle blew, screaming through the air as the platform flooded with a burst of steam. Stiles reached out, grasping a fistful of the fabric; causing Scott to turn back sharply to face him. Stiles’s mouth opened to voice a warning as the whistle sounded again, cutting off the older boys’ words. 

“What did you say?” Stiles implored, frozen from the look on the others face, the only family he had left in the world.

“Are you sure about this Mischief?”

The question carried so much weight and was issued forth so seriously that it gave him pause, despite his feet itching to rush onto the now slowly departing train. His thoughts whirled through the last month, the moments of obsessively weighing their options again and again and never finding a remedy for them suddenly finding themselves orphaned. Biting down on his lip, he stared hard into Scott’s eyes as the weight of decision settled in his chest and he nodded sharply, only once. As much of an answer as Scott ever needed, he grasped the younger boys hand, pulling them towards the train door just as it started to pick up momentum. At the time, Stiles couldn’t have described the feeling in his chest as his feet left the ground. Years later he would recognize it purely as regret.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles’s eyes opened to the slowly darkening sky, watching the land slip past below them was unnerving. The ground slowly gave way to something unfamiliar as they watched the lights of London disappear behind the horizon. Being trapped in a confined space with the combination of being alone with one’s thoughts was enough to drive Stiles nearly insane. The single reason Scott hadn’t lost his temper with him was the boy’s desperation to keep the other close. Death could do that to a person. 

Mile after mile, Stiles chewed his nails down to the quick, his feet beating a constant rhythm on the polished wood floor as he tried to focus on the sound of the machinery moving beneath them. He couldn’t sleep, not curled up as he was. It was the excuse he gave his brother as he offered to keep watch over their things; the real reason was a weight that threated to consume him. It pounded in his head with a constant worry that he was leading them in the wrong direction. He wouldn’t sleep tonight, not until he had gone over every possible scenario of what they faced in a vain attempt to brace for impact. It was the one benefit of being born too full of energy.

The village of Ely boasted a small platform with an overhead that could protect little more than a small family if the weather didn’t agree with them. Its next most notable fact was the station itself, was seven kilometres from town. The boys disembarked midday, the only benefit afforded to them as they were the only ones who chose this stop as a departing point. Stiles set his bag at his feet, watching the train speed off to its next destination smiling despite him. Scott grinned back, ruffling a hand in his brother’s hair as they situated themselves to their new surroundings. They were good at this, had become good at this over the past year. They could smile and bolster themselves up with little more than a small glimmer of hope to grasp onto. It was something. They still had each other. 

Scott found the right road, the more precise of the two deciding on the route as Stiles’s path would have them cutting across country; saving time but adding uncertainty if they would end up trapped in a bog or a field of corn they could never escape from. By Stiles’s calculations they would reach town before dinnertime, and he crossed his fingers hoping their aunt had received their letter. 

They stopped and buried the bulk of their money beside a tree that lay on the outskirts of the county. Right under a giant reaching oak two feet down in Stiles’s tin cigar box that used to contain a small amount of American baseball cards that had previously been his most cherished possession now held nearly every penny that belonged to their name. The air was hot and muggy around them, sweat collecting on the backs of their finest cotton shirts that they had worn for this occasion. There was no second chance to make a first impression; Stiles knew this truth better than almost any he had collected over the years. Scott’s hand curled around the back of his neck in a comforting gesture, one that sent a shock of longing so intensely for his father that Stiles nearly gasped out loud. He knew that his brother was trying, fighting to stay afloat as the new head of their very small family; his hand pressing all the words he couldn’t say directly into his skin. Now wasn’t the time for words, now was a time for acceptance and blindly pushing forward into the unknown. Their boots were quiet on the abandoned road, the streets a dusty heavy dirt springing into the air with each muffled step. 

From a distance, the town looked small, barely a town by any stretch of the word. Miniscule in comparison to London, secluded. Out here there was nothing to hear but the birds and the howl of the wind as it whirled down the valley into the trees. Stiles felt a bead of sweat run down his temple from his hair which he wiped away with his wrist. The heat was stifling among the trees, which gathered closer the nearer they walked. Taking a long sip from the canteen at his hip, he passed it to Scott; trying to remember the long nights he spent frozen to the bone in the small apartment above his family’s shop as a child. He couldn’t grasp onto the memory of being cold when the heat pressed in from all sides like it was trying to force the air from his lungs. 

“Do you need to top up?” Scott asked with no more than a cursory glance. 

It was the way they had all phrased it since Stiles could remember. His mother had sat him down after a visit to the doctor, one of the countless appointments their family endured and had assured him that nothing had changed. They were happy to be born with a boy who was full of enough electricity to power the neighbourhood. At the time he had clung to her words like a lifeline, an ache in his chest and a lump in his throat so big he couldn’t swallow around it. He knew better now, and as he got older, he wasn’t so troubled by the differences when he realized the benefits it allowed him. Despite all of this and the fact that he had mellowed slightly with age, the habit stuck. No one mentioned his medication; it had been so long since they had that it had long stopped feeling on purpose. Scott’s words tipped around that fact that he had noticed Stiles’s hands shaking, something they always did when it was time for another dose. Neither of them mentioned the fact that there were only enough left for just over a week. As with all things, they would cross that bridge when they came to it.

Stiles nodded after being passed back the canteen, Scott already moving to rifle through the pack on his shoulders. Their feet barely slowed through their progress, in no time Scott setting a small pill in the flat of his hand and he crunched it between his teeth; the bitter taste filling his mouth as he prayed to stave off the rise of anxiety filling his chest.  
There were houses now, grouping closer and closer together the closer they walked. None of the homes were particularly opulent, and that was being kind. It was clear they had been around for a few generations, the general repairs visible from the road. It didn’t appear to be an overly affluent town, the bulk of their wealth tied up in the lush fields growing out like spokes in every direction. 

Their Aunts house was small, smaller than Stiles thought was possible for how many kids had grown up here when his father was a child. They waited outside for hours, the sun hot on their necks as Stiles circled the yard; making the trip back to the road multiple times while Scott dozed on the porch, his head propped on their bags. It was too quiet, the noise of the city still buzzing in his ears.

She arrived an hour later looking not surprised but mildly put out to see them waiting for her as she ushered them inside with only a cursory greeting. The smell of damp hit him so hard in the entryway that his eyes almost watered. Scott’s sneeze followed immediately like punctuation as the door shut behind them, and it made his fingers twitch. Their aunt was a small and frail looking woman, pale skin ashen in the dingy light from the small window. She disappeared down the hall without a word, the sickly-sweet scent of old drying flowers stirring in her wake, Scott sneezing once more. 

Stiles’s hand wrapped around his brother’s arms quickly, his sharp eyes cataloguing every minute detail.  
“Ok?” he asked, unable to twist it enough that it didn’t sound like resignation flowing past his lips.

Huffing out a quick sigh, he nodded once as he wiped his shoes on the welcome mat; eyes tracking around the room. Stiles pulled off his cap, smoothing his unruly brown hair with one hand as he gestured down the hall after his aunt. Attempting to shake off his trepidation at their seemingly unwelcome arrival, he let Scott go first; always aware of whom made a better impression. People didn’t always warm to Stiles, and he knew to stay quiet, his twitchy demeanor already enough of a red flag. 

It was odd, to have to track the woman down after having stepped into her home for the first time. Scott dipped his head into the kitchen his knuckles rapping on the wood frame by way of greeting. Stiles caught the edge of her hand gesture, his brother leading them to a wood table that seemed to large and out of place for such a small room. Stiles wondered idly why a widow owned a table this size when her and his uncle had never had any children. The idea that it was from a time before when their idea of a family and future had looked so bright and different from how it was now made his heart soften if only mildly for this hard woman, who was currently staring them down from near the sink. No one could have predicted that their lives would turn out like this.

The room was cluttered, and Stiles had to climb over a stack of magazines, so close to tipping it over that he risked bashing his head in on a decorative plate attempting to avoid it. He was all to aware this would happen and focused on making each movement deliberate and careful. Better him than Scott rifling amongst all of the clutter and dust; he could already hear the low wheezing breaths reaching him from across the table. 

Walking over a few moments later, she set a small glass of powdered milk in front of them and a plate each of crackers that Stiles recognized as the chiefly low quality variety that were handed out as rations. These looked particularity old. Scott’s hand had already moved quick as a flash dropping one of his onto Stiles’s plate and turning his face away like the wordless discussion was already over. It was the hard truth of it, but he could imagine that he didn’t look well. They hadn’t eaten much on the train, and Stiles’ pills started agitating his stomach even a few hours after a full meal. Considering they hadn’t had one of those in days, they both understood it was best to try to bury it; and as rapidly as possible. So he ate quickly, his hunger no more urgent than his brothers but Scott was their best hope at… Scott was their best hope.

“We are very grateful to you for taking us in Aunt, it has been a very difficult couple of weeks in London. This offer is a refuge for us, so we can remain together.”

“I have little interest in housing the relics of my husband’s family. We have no blood relation.”

Stiles paused with his drink to his lips, the sense of unease settling with a wrenching finality that landed like a stone in his gut. Scott was the diplomat out of the two of them, but Stiles was faster, smarter. He had seen the quick decline of their situation falling and falling but her blasé announcement took him by surprise. 

“Why did you send for us?” Scott asked slowly, his tone hesitant like he was hoping the words would disappear back up her throat.

“The town needs labourers.”

Chewing his lip Stiles waited for her continued explanation and was left wanting. Sighing minutely, he nodded once, smiling briefly before finishing his milk. “Regardless of reason, we appreciate your help Aunt Margaret.”

“Simply Margaret will due.”

It took a sharp kick in his shin from Scott not to respond to this, his brother recognizing the sequence of expressions on his face at her words. Stuffing another cracker in his mouth he nodded in ascent to her, nearly choking on the stale crumbs. 

They were shown their room after that, bypassing a multitude of doors on the second level before climbing a second set to the attic. It was a steep climb, and Stiles bit his tongue as he surveyed the tiny space. Being up here would wreak havoc on Scott’s lungs, whose asthma had gotten so much worse the summer the bombings had begun. The countryside was supposed to alleviate his worsening symptoms, and instead they were cramped up in a small windowless room; banished to the furthest reaches of the house. The boys sat on their cramped cots, neither of them wanting to voice the truth.

Stiles had made a mistake.


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of the weekend saw little improvement to their situation. They were put to work around the home, as he fully expected they would be. Margaret was not a young woman, as their father’s eldest brother’s wife; only Scott had a slight recollection of meeting the woman once when they were very small. The boys rarely spoke, all communication seemed to have been tamped down with an attempt to salvage a shred of hope that they would grow on her. It had to be an unprecedented change in her life, to go from living alone to sheltering two almost grown boys. The war office would have been notified, larger ration cards issued as well as an inquiry into their conscription status; and while Scott’s lungs omitted him from this, Stiles could be called up at any time. 

Sunday greeted them with little change, despite their expected attendance at church they received nothing but curious looks and were introduced to no one. It unnerved Stiles, the cold distance created seeming to have some undisclosed purpose they had yet to discover. That night Stiles pulled off his shirt closing his eyes for a moment, bracing against the weight on his shoulders like he was trying to slough it off. Whatever he felt, he knew it was worse for Scott, who had always been the one to take care of him. The room in the attic was so miniscule that he had to crane his neck to even stand up straight in it. The top of his head bracketed the roof as he unbuttoned his slacks them falling away in a distracted heap as he tried in vain to think his way out of this scenario. 

“I think tomorrow I will look for work, perhaps that will warm her to us.” Stiles offered a half hour later from his place in bed. The room was black as pitch with no window, but he could tell Scott was awake from the short pulls of his breath; sounding harsh enough that he couldn't tune it out. 

“We need to do something.”

“Scott-.” Stiles started; his words cut off before he could even get another word out.

“It will be ok Mischief, we’re ok.”

The nickname worked, it always did as Scott saved it for moments when he needed to make an impact, needed his brother to hear him. Something in it had his lungs deflating, the burden of unease slipping off just enough for him to fall asleep. 

Monday brought with it a list of chores a page long over breakfast that had Stiles’s eyes budging out of his head, not sure where his aunt was hiding the army of workers it would take to complete it. Having zero sense of self-preservation and with his medication withdrawal humming through him he almost said it out loud when he was waylaid.   
A loud cracking knock jarred him enough that he jumped from his place at the sink. Wiping his aching hands on a frayed towel he moved towards the voices as his Aunt answered the door; her low voice carrying his name taking him surprise. 

Stiles’s brow furrowed at her words, at the open and almost happy look on her otherwise stern face. An uneasy but all too familiar weight lurched in his gut as his gaze caught Scott’s, who had just emerged from the upper level, foot hovering halfway between stairs. 

“Our ride to where?”

Catching a view of the visitor fully as he shifted uncomfortably in the frame of the door, his smile faltering as he took in their matching looks of anxiety. He was tall, his clothes nearly worn out and filthy at the elbows and knees a stark contrast to the neat and purposeful styling of his blonde curled hair.   
Margaret for her part looked unapologetic and almost smug as she turned to Stiles. The stranger at the door scuffed his feet awkwardly before tipping his hat, mumbling quietly to the room at large. “I’ll be waiting in the work truck.”

Stiles unfroze in increments, his mind whirling through worst- and best-case scenarios as he looked from his brother to his aunt to the dilapidated truck in the drive. The panic in Scott’s eyes urged him forward, knowing their chances of being separated increased greatly with every step out that door. 

“Aunt Margaret, would it suffice it only I went? I am a fast learner; I will work incredibly hard and cover double shifts if Scott can stay here? He is little trouble; he can work in town or help you out. A farm is no place for someone with his condition.”

“The only condition you should be worrying over is your own.” She returned her voice sharp and quiet as she stared him down with not one ounce of kindness afforded to family. “The devil is in you boy.”

Breathing out a harsh breath through his teeth he turned his face, nowhere near new to these words but unfamiliar with them coming from the mouth of a relative.  
“I only brought you here because the farm needed workers, you were a transaction. You won't be returning, grab all of your things and leave now if you know what is good for you. There is no love for you here.”

Stiles tried to keep still in the truck; the man from the front door introduced himself as Isaac his wry grin unwavering on his face from the back of the cab as they bounced along the back roads. In their haste, Stiles still hadn’t taken his medication and couldn’t now without revealing too much. Isaac’s tall wiry frame leant back against the metal guardrails, his body swaying with the truck looking relaxed enough that it had to be a practiced gesture. His blonde hair was longer, dripping in front of his eyes at every bump. His skin was tan and his hands were rough and scarred; both things that marked him as a farm labourer. There was a rifle on his hip that Stiles glanced at, the safety noticeably disengaged. Isaac grinned as his gaze met his.

It took them nearly an hour to reach their destination, each mile of ground covered settling into his bones with something he couldn’t discern between relief and trepidation to be away from his aunt. Through the open back canvas of the truck, they watched fields of grain bubble up around them becoming denser and denser the closer they came. Stiles’s mind was quick enough for this to be a distraction, the thrill of something new a diversion from the harsh reality of their predicament. When they finally slowed, the truck pitched down a bumpy dirt road, spotted with holes the size of wheelbarrows the sound of barking meeting them over the groan of the engine. 

“Come on now boys or you’ll miss your welcoming committee.” Isaac laughed, swinging one leg over the back of the truck and hopping to the ground before they had even fully stopped. Sucking in a settling breath, Stiles could smell the heady scent of the farm; grain and dust cutting through the air sharply. Scott jumped off the cab, landing gracefully in a way Stiles never could as he ambled around the side, his hands fumbling in his haste. Lifting their bags, they followed a short distance behind their guide as he approached a large old building, its red brick façade cracked and chipping on every side. 

“The place used to be a school,” Isaac mentioned over his shoulder as they neared the door, the building looking deserted. “The government took it over when they needed a place to house more out of town workers once the grain quotas for the army were increased.”

They stepped over the threshold into the spacious entryway that hadn’t lost its grandeur over time. Both boys looked up, distracted by the stained-glass ceiling gracing the roof above their heads. “It looks a lot better than it actually is. The rooms are falling apart, but it’s clean, and it’s a sight better than the place you were staying in before.”

When neither of them responded Isaac smiled again, motioning down the hall. “We just have to introduce you to the boss man for clearance and we will be all set.”

“Who runs this place?” Stiles asked, his head whipping around as he curiously absorbed every sight around him. 

“The youngest Lieutenant in the 9th infantry’s history.”

The way he said it was so careful, so artfully sincere that if Stiles hadn’t been an absolute indelible judge of character even he would have scarcely heard the note of sarcasm in the man’s words. 

“Peter Hale of Norfolk, he’s been stationed here for two years and runs the entire operation which includes the export of product and the overseeing of the labourers of which we have nearly thirty.”

“He runs it alone?”

“Mostly, there is a little direction from the higher ups now and then, inspection and what not but generally they leave us to our own devices as long as we meet quota.” He answered, stopping at a heavy looking door. “Anyhow, this is it. He will ask you a few questions; go over your papers and the like. I’ll be waiting out here to show you to your rooms or in the unlikely event that this goes disastrously; drive you back to Ely station because not even someone who was criminally insane would voluntarily return to your Aunts place.”

Stiles laughed despite himself, which he counted as a success after the incredible upheaval they had faced in the span of a few hours. Nothing about this was going as expected, and now they were about to be judged by a man that they did not know for a task that they were unaware of. The laugh tore out of him sounded harsh, nothing about this was funny. Isaac smiled back with that somewhat manic edge and taking this for assent and rapped on the door sharply with his knuckles, dipping away before a voice ushered them in.

The office inside was grand, the furnishings new and handsome in the somewhat rundown interior. A severe looking man sat at the desk, not sparing them a glance for a few moments as he continued rifle through a pile of very official looking documents. Isaac hadn’t been kidding when he said that the man was young for a lieutenant. Stiles couldn’t place him as older than his late twenties and it was a bit of a shock to see such a severe looking expression on his face as they entered the space. They had left their bags in the hall and now stood awkwardly in front of an imposing wood desk. After a few minutes, the absurdity of the situation hit Stiles head-on and he sucked in a breath, about to unleash the full barrage of his thoughts when the man held up his hand in a halting motion, as if he knew the boy was about to speak. A sputter escaped his lips as he watched him hastily scrawl a signature down before he finally turned his attention towards them. 

“Welcome to Ely Compound, I am senior Lieutenant Peter Hale, and you are?” He spoke briskly and in such a commanding voice that spoke such a contrast to his age that Stiles startled visibly. Scott luckily came through as he always could be counted on to. 

Peter wasn’t particularly tall, or particularly handsome. His features were unassuming, dull, nothing striking or memorable about him physically whatsoever. He wasn’t particularly anything. His hair was dark and shorn into a severe military issued cut. His eyes were a steely cold blue, the effect of both like they were absorbing the light. His face was hard, determinately and purposefully so; like this man was trying to make an impression, trying to exert control. It was effective. His rigid limbs and hard expression making his demeanor immediately imposing. He was clearly in charge and was marked as their leader, but it was something in his aura that set him apart. Stiles could sense this. It wasn’t easy for him to speak to others, but he knew how to read them, and read them well. He almost never made a mistake and as confidently as he knew what others saw in him at first meeting, he could read this man. The animal parts of people could always sense the hierarchy laid out when in the presence of someone who gave off a sense of, wrongness. Stiles could see it clear as day in the hard set of the man’s shoulders that he was not one to cross.

“My name is Scott Stilinski, and this is my brother Stiles. Our Aunt volunteered us as labourers for the compound.” 

Peter lifted an eyebrow at the word volunteered but otherwise didn’t address the use of the term as he took the offered papers, eyes scanning over them.

“Why haven’t you enlisted?”

It was a common question; one they had faced a dozen times in the last month alone with half the country away at war. Despite all their practice it wasn’t getting easier to explain.  
“I went for medical last year, but I have issues with my lungs that prevented me from going forward. They recommended factory work which I did in London before the facility was destroyed.”

“What about your family?”

“They died Sir, in the bombings. Our Aunt is the only family left alive that we are aware of.”

“You don’t look much alike.”

“We’re half brothers, my father died right after I was born. My mother remarried and then had Stiles.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed slightly, glancing between the two of them.   
“What about you? How old are you?” Peter asked, turning this sharp attention to Stiles.

“I just turned seventeen, I’m uh-,” he paused running a hand through his hair. “I’m listed as having a behaviour disorder, its not as bad as it sounds, the notes are all there; I am eligible for service upon follow up inspection once I turn 18.”

Peter studied him for a long moment after reading and Stiles purposefully held himself still, knowing it was too late to hide his restlessness from his observant gaze. “What are your intentions?”

At this point he honestly didn’t know if they would accept him, his frenetic energy would either be seen as a benefit or they would laugh him right out the door. “I want to do my part, with our circumstances as they are, I’d like to stay with my brother if I can. If I am conscripted or recommended for enlistment overseas, I will oblige.”

“Neither of you have any interest in the glory of war?”

It was clear what he meant, the pride he took in it. Sitting at a desk in full uniform, the man radiated a commanding presence; it was certainly something to behold.   
Scott spoke up before Stiles could. “We want to do our part.”

Peter leant back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him as he studied each in turn. It took too long, and Stiles’s shoulders bounced in agitation, eliciting a feral smile from the man. “You will fit right in.”

They glanced at each other; the surprise mirrored on both of their faces. Peter rose from his place, rounding the chair and leading them from the room. Isaac was leaning against the wall in the entryway, his eyebrows rising in question as the boys were led towards him when Stiles gave him a quick nod. 

“Welcome to the family boys,” he murmured under his breath as they passed, falling in step behind them as they walked further into the house. 

“Its hard work here, we put in long shifts and everyone is expected to pull their weight. You will be issued clothing and toiletries after processing. We will reconvene in two hours so you can have a walkthrough of the farm where you will be assigned a work detail.” Peter spoke, stopping abruptly at a door and turning to face them, “Any questions?”

“Um…” Stiles started.

“No,” Scott cut in, casually sidling to partially block his brother from view. “Thank you, Lieutenant, we won’t disappoint.”

“You better not.” He replied starting back down the hall. “See to it that they are processed and prepared before the team returns.”

“Yes Sir,” Isaac answered politely, before turning his grin on them; rubbing his hands together in a way that had Stiles regretting stepping foot in the building. “Let’s get this started!”

Processing it turns out, was code for low level humiliation conducted by strangers. The boys were stripped of their belongings and deloused. Isaac unable to hide his amusement as both of their heads were shaved, regaling last month’s outbreak of lice that had run rampant as they stood in their army issued underclothes their skin still pink from the chemicals. Stiles was taking it all in, compartmentalizing each new hurdle, this was all he could stomach. Then they tried to take their fathers jacket. 

Scott rushed forward, the height and bulk of his build enough of a threat without the fury in his eyes that had Stiles stumbling forward; his lithe frame easily slipping between him and the man attempting to take it. “Please.” Stiles hurried, trying to deescalate the tension that had burst forth in a second. “It was our fathers; it’s all we have left.”

“We incinerate all of the clothing.” The man responded harshly, clearly caring little for their plight especially after Scott’s reaction.

“Can’t you make an exception?”

“No exceptions, you follow the rules, or you will be disciplined for resisting orders.”

A small whine escaped through Stiles’s teeth as he turned towards his brother, grasping tightly to his shoulders. “It’s ok, we’re ok Scott it’s just a jacket.”

“Stiles.” He pleaded, eyes looking distant as he pushed back against his brother’s hands.

“It’s just one more thing, we can handle one more.”

They couldn’t, hell of course they couldn’t but Isaac stepped in before they had a chance to do anything at all. “I think it’s about that time you two, let’s get you dressed and out of here for your physicals. Lydia does not like to be kept waiting.”

Stiles squeezed his brother’s arms tighter, Scott pulling away and roughly grasping their newly issued clothes from the arms of another man. 

“You first Scott,” Isaac said quietly, the pity an unwelcome sound in his voice.


	4. Chapter 4

Lydia turned out to be a petite girl who barely looked old enough to have graduated high school, let alone nursing school. Her shocking red hair was pulled away from her face into a severe looking bun at the base of her neck, her outfit starched and white against her pale skin.   
Stiles blinked up at her from the small chair as she whirled around him, each movement precise and calculated as she prepared her station. The loud rhythm knocking out by his boots was halted by a stern look in his direction.

“Sorry miss.” he answered, a bit sheepishly. God it had been a long day, as collected as he tried to appear, meeting so many people overwhelmed him; especially when the stakes were so high. Having lost one more person that he thought to be an ally, they had found themselves once again entirely alone in the world.  
The anxiety of it all had his mind spinning, and it didn’t bode well for his mouth when he sought out distraction. 

“Are you the only medical personnel stationed here?”

“If you wish to have your physical performed by the doctor you can expect him the first Tuesday of every month.” She spoke in a clipping tone, not hazarding a glance in his direction even though the subtle lift of her eyebrows had him nearly curling back into his seat.

“No, no of course this is more than sufficient.”

“It’s a good thing that our facilities are sufficient enough for a man from London’s high standards. We are a very rural compound; the people here are lucky enough to have a nurse at all.”

Stiles’s teeth clenched in growing horror as she spoke, recognizing immediately the sort of hardships someone like her would have faced at a station like this. He had known her all of five minutes and he could tell she was intelligent, likely immensely so. As he fumbled to catch up in an attempt to salvage the interaction, she whipped right past him.  
“I appreciate your use of the term medical personnel. Some of the others here see me as nothing more than a candy striper. I am no one’s mother or sister or sweetheart.”

“I would never judge you without the facts Lydia, and seeing as we just met, I have precious few. It would be a waste of both of our time to form an opinion of the other with no more than a number of surface details.”

Her piercing blue eyes held his for a long moment before she looked away, giving away little but the smallest twitch to her mouth that Stiles hoped was acceptance; hoping he could find an ally in another person who was constantly overlooked.   
Settling down in the chair across from him she rested a clipboard on her knee, settling that intimidating gaze on him. 

“Full name?” 

“Mieczysław Stilinski, but I go by Stiles.”

Lydia had little reaction to his given name, which admittedly made him like her even more. 

“Age?”

“Seventeen.”

“Physical or mental ailments?”

Stiles let out a quick breath through his teeth, deciding to just dive right in. “Apart from the obvious?”

Lydia raised one eyebrow at this but jotted down a note anyway.

“Hyperactivity.”

Stiles nodded, scratching at his chin as she continued to write, “Are you taking medication for it?”

“Amphetamines.”

“How many tablets do you take per day?”

“Two, sometimes three if it’s a really bad day.”

“At what age were they prescribed?”

“Twelve.”

“You have been on the same dosage for five years?” her voice betrayed nothing, but Stiles had a gift for reading expressions; this once didn’t end with a check in his corner.

“Nearly,” he admitted. “It took some time to get a routine going.”

She hummed under her breath, a disapproving sound if he’d ever heard one but when her eyes settled on him again, she seemed almost intrigued. “I will see what I can do about obtaining more of it for you, it shouldn’t be too difficult as there is an air force base a few miles from here; they dole it out to the pilots.”

“I had heard that.” Stiles whispered; baffled by how their interaction had turned around. “Thank you.”

Lydia nodded, setting his file aside as she administered the physical examination; her practiced movements had him standing to leave in less than five minutes.

“You are cleared for work duty and appear to be in excellent health; if perhaps moderately underweight. That is not uncommon for new recruits.”

“Ok.”

“I will advise that you are put on a heavier nutrition plan and will touch base within the week about the amphetamines.”

Breathing in once, he nodded distractedly as he buttoned up his shirt; his fingers fumbling on the buttons. “It must seem a big change for you Stiles, this place is not as bad as it seems.”

“It’s fine, thank you Lydia.”

She nodded, looking up to the clock. “Come now, we don’t want to keep Peter waiting.”


	5. Chapter 5

Scott was sitting in the hall, looking about a dazed as Stiles felt as they were pulled from place to place like unwilling children. His brother looked resigned to it, probably saving this new hurt for later when they were in private when they could fall apart in peace.

This time when they climbed into the truck, they weren’t alone. Peter and a few others joined them, discussing the delegation of duties and the different facilities on the property. They nodded politely, taking little in as their minds buzzed with overload of too much upheaval. Stiles’s skin prickled from the delousing powder and he ran a hand over his shorn hair absently. It could have been much worse. That mantra kept them going as they ambled down the road. 

The farm itself was beautiful and boasted a huge stone farmhouse; looking warmer and more welcoming than anything he had seem so far. It was something to clutch onto on a day that had offered them little. Peter led them around back, explaining how his nephew maintained the farm and Stiles had just enough time to be confused by this fact when they came across the man in question.

Stiles nearly choked as a boy rounded the corner, looking so much like an adult that his eyes rounded back to Peter in the one second he could spare to glance away from the other. The resemblance was there, but only at the edges where a placement of features had worked wonders on one and not on the other. Peter face wasn’t unfortunate or anything but there was a sort of rough edge to his looks that painted him too harshly. Their hair was the same chestnut, so dark it was almost black. The mean edge to both of their face was softened in the nephews despite the strong thick line of his brow; there was warmth to his eyes that Stiles was immediately captivated by. 

Derek was, attractive. It wasn’t strange that Stiles noticed this first, he was always picking up oddities and nuances; but to look at someone and think god, I’ve never seen a face like this had him feeling a little sluggish. A certainty settled in his bones when he looked at the boy and knew he had never seen anyone quite so beautiful. Stiles loved the feeling of certainty. So, he smiled at him with a quick tug at his lips, earnest but intrusive as he studied the whole of him, piecing bits together like a puzzle. 

The surprising thing was Derek noticed. His eyes were on him the second his sweeping glances began; his dark eyebrows raising in a question that Stiles had no answer too. It was rare for people to notice him when he was being quiet, to pick up on his small observations when the rest of him tended to be so distracting. His nervous ticks and constant movement had always provided him with a crutch that left his mind free to wander and study without consequence. Derek’s sharp gaze matched his and Stiles couldn’t stop the wide grin that pulled at his lips, so out of place amongst the quiet formal welcoming they had received. The other boy for his part gave little reaction, the angles of his face severe as his stare held for a moment longer before turning to the rest of the group.

There was speaking around him, but the settling of the group had landed Stiles nearest to Derek who seemed intent of ignoring his presence after his odd greeting. So he did what he always did, and made an uncomfortable situation worse. 

“What colour are your eyes?”

The question rushed past his lips almost without his volition and his face made a complicated mixture of expressions as he tried to salvage the moment with the least amount of embarrassment. A few of the group turned at his odd question, Scott laughing once before returning to his conversation with Peter whose gaze fixed on Stiles for a beat before turning away. 

“Gray.” Derek huffed, his gaze merely glancing over him before returning to the group as a whole. This would be the moment where any other person would step back, pulling together the shreds of their dignity and try to forget the slip up ever happened. Stiles was unfortunately not like other people. The frown between his eyes deepened as he stepped closer, a hairs breadth away from what anyone in civilized society would deem as too close for casual conversation. Derek turned to him with something like dismay.

“They look sort of green.” He muttered distractedly, watching as the eyes in question widen in disbelief. 

The man huffed in irritation, placing a broad hand on Stiles’s shoulder to get him out of his space. Rubbing his hair with his hand, Stiles smiles apologetically, a rosy flush peppering his fair skin as he stepped back, muttering an apology. Looking over at the group, he is relieved to find their attentions diverted elsewhere, only Isaac looking their way eyebrows bouncing up and down with this stupid smug look on his face. As they moved back to the main building, Derek didn’t spare him another glance; his indiscretion thankfully seeming pushed under the rug. The only thing that remained was the visceral memory of his warm hand gently prodding him away.

Scott gave him a sympathetic look, a small huff of laugher from his brother bolstering his spirits as it always did. It felt particularly comforting in this moment, when it had been such a trying day. That was the one thing he was always good at, even if it came at the hefty price of his dignity. 

“You like his eyes?” Scott prodded, nudging Stiles’ shoulder as they followed the group from a short distance. Derek walked with a slight limp, his torso twisting to one side to compensate; looking like he did his best to hide it. If he was not mistaken, he could see the slightest hint of red creep up his neck above his shirt. Either he had overheard them or had spent too much time in the sun. Stiles hoped it was the former, he was humiliated enough. 

“Shut up,” he whispered, smiling despite himself. He would do just about anything to make Scott laugh, luckily for him he barely had to try at it. “I don’t like them. Its not my fault they’re like a…” he gestured into the air with one hand, stumbling over the uneven dirt ground. “Kaleidoscope.”

“Kaleidoscope?” 

“Give me a break Scott, I panicked ok?”

“You never fail to make an impression, do you?”

The words, despite being said lightheartedly sat like a stone in Stiles’ gut. As they exited a grove of trees, sidestepping ladders strewn about to collect apples from the top branches, returned to the stone house. It was much less grand than the others on the property, but it looked more maintained, more recent. Ivy grew up the side of it, hanging heavily over the eaves making the house look like a piece of the scenery. 

Isaac had paused at the open door, a cat skirting past his feet into the tall grass; making Stiles jump. “Come on you two, you’ll be happy of the cats when they are keeping mice out of your work boots. This place was crawling with them before we added a few felines to the roster.”

The brothers walked up the few stairs and through the front door, the rest of the group remaining on the driveway beside a rusty looking truck, deep in conversation. Stiles glanced back over his shoulder, his gaze meeting Derek’s. The mans frown hardened momentarily, and he glanced away with a shake of his head to speak to Peter, who was observing the interaction with a tilt of his head. Something about it was distinctly wolf like and made Stiles’ heart sink for what felt like the 50th time that day. Try as he might, he always found a way to ruin their chances. 

He hurried to catch up to the other two, their feet having already carried them halfway up the stairs. The building was plain on the upper levels, the walls white washed; the carpets settling over the wood floors were worn and threadbare in places; muffling their boots as they followed a long thin hallway. 

“There are three floors, you two as new recruits are assigned to the sweltering top level.” Isaac spoke, smiling as he gestured at the row of doors. “You are lucky enough to be near the bathroom though.”  
“You have running water?” Scott asked, sounding pleased as he looked into the cramped bathroom; an aged looking clawfoot scrunched in the corner under the angled roof. 

“Almost half the days of the week, but its better than nothing. Bathing is reserved for Saturday evenings, so we all look mildly presentable for church on Sundays. As you can imagine things get a bit ripe in here with over twenty men but there is a river on the other side of the orchard if you are feeling desperate; and believe me you will. After a long day out in the fields, most of us opt for that.”

“I thought Peter said there were over 30 here?” Stiles chimed in, surveying the well-kept space with a bit of surprise considering the amount of men around.

“There are women as well,” Isaac answered, nodding towards a closed door at the end of the hall. “They have their own wing of the house; the door is always locked; keeps us less civilized men from impeding on their general day to day.”

There was no hostility in his words, Stiles noticed even a slight reverence there. Things had certainly changed since the war began, women’s value eclipsing any other point in recent memory. The country was indebted to them for holding things together. Scott and Stiles father had always instilled in them the keenest respect for the opposite gender and their mother had been a force to be reckoned with; but that certainly wasn’t the case with everyone. Stiles’ had a feeling that both would warm to Isaac before too long. 

As they approached the end of the hall Isaac pulled a ring of keys out of his jacket, flicking through a couple of them before settling on one and using it to open the door to a small room. Ushering them both inside he pointed out the sparse pieces of furniture, an awkward tour guide but clearly practiced as he spouted off what sounded like a well rehearsed introduction. The room was clean and a slightly cramped with a cot, desk and wash basin all crowed against the walls. There was a large window overlooking the spiralling fields below, the farmhouse just in view behind the trees. After what they had seen, this room was a relief. So different from the space in that dark attic, and from their small apartment above the shop in dreary crowded London. 

“Its not much but it does the trick,” Isaac spoke, reading the room wrong as the tension slipped away from the brothers. “Most people don’t spend a lot of time in their quarters, mostly because its hot as hell up here and the common rooms tend to stay a bit cooler. We will bring up a change of clothes and some personal effects before dinner, I’m sure you are used to the rations living in London.”

Stiles nodded, his jaw clenching with the memory of their crumbling neighbourhood; forcing it away to draw his attention back to the present. “Thank you, this will be more than satisfactory.”

Isaac nodded, setting the key on the desk shuffling back to the hall. “I’d recommend you locking your doors, not that you have many personal effects; but a few of the lads have been know to be a bit snoopy.”

“Noted.”

“Now which of you will want the next room, its nearly identical minus the view.”

Stiles felt his body start with shock, catching Scott’s eye quickly before looking back at their companion. “We aren’t sharing?”

It was Isaacs turn to look surprised, shaking his head slowly as he glanced between the two of them. “Course not, it’s a quality establishment you’ve found yourselves in,” he joked, his hand slapping the doorframe. “You’ll earn it trust me; you will be so bone tired every night you will want the luxury of your own space.”

Leading the way to the next door he showed them the room, and he was right. It was nearly identical save the view being obscured almost entirely by the branches of a huge oak tree just outside the window. 

“I’ll take this one.” Stiles offered, slipping the offered key into his trouser pocket. He knew how much Scott loved the countryside, how much he had waxed poetic about the starry night sky when they were younger while staring out the glass at the grey and brick of the building next to them, so close they could never catch even a hint of blue. There wasn’t a tree in sight where they had grown up, this alone was a small comfort to him. 

Isaac shrugged, not seeming to care about their arrangement, already ambling out of their space and down the hall. “Feel free to explore, I’ll be back to collect you before dinner.”

The brothers watched him retreat, hearing his feet pounding down the stairs until the noise faded away and it was just the two of them again. Stiles let out a huge sigh, stepping back until his legs hit the bed and he slumped into it; the rigid mattress bouncing back with little give. Scott stared out the window from his place by the door facing his brother, his brow furrowed in thought. 

“What is it Scott?” Stiles asked, feeling hesitant to draw him out of his silence; concern crawling at his throat now that they were alone. The overwhelming weight of their new situation had started to settle, his mind whirring with possible outcomes so fast it almost made him dizzy. “What do you think? Should we go? I’m sure they won’t notice if we wait for dark.”

Scott shook his head, coming over to sit beside his brother; his hand clasping onto his tightly, grounding him with the sensation. 

“Its going to be ok. We’re going to be ok.”

Words tumbled past Stiles lips before he could stop them, a tangle of fears bubbling over. “What if I screwed it up? I’m sorry I can’t keep my thoughts in my head, everything just comes out and I made the nephew uncomfortable; and Peter, don’t get me started on him Scott; he gives me the creeps. What if this place is a front? Are they going to murder us tonight and feed us to the pigs? -“

Scott interrupted his rambling with a hearty laugh, his arm wrapping around his brother’s shoulders in comfort. “They are not going to feed us to the pigs. I swear Mischief, you need to stop reading those weird novels; the things you come up with.”

“They aren’t weird Scott, they’re works of genius, you would know that if you cared to read them or decide to read anything, ever. How do you know they aren’t complete psychopaths that good old Aunt Margaret sold our asses to for money so she could buy some decent fucking biscuits?”

At this point Scott was clutching his side, tears collecting at the corners of his eyes he was laughing so hard, Stiles staring at him with abject disappointment. “You’re not going to be laughing tonight when they smother you with a pillow.”

“Oh please, like I couldn’t take them.” He wheezed, standing on unsteady legs to run his hands along the worn chair at the desk, inspecting the legs. “This place isn’t bad Stiles. It’s a lot better than what we’ve had in the last year that’s for damn sure. Let’s give it a chance.”

“Unless I screw it up first.”

Sighing, Scott smiled at his younger brother trying to put as much weight into his words as he could. It was a trick he had learned from their father, and it never failed to disarm Stiles when he was getting in his head. “You won’t screw it up. You are the smartest person I know, and you’re going to be the smartest one here by a landslide. They are lucky to have you.”

“What value can I bring to a farm? As a labourer?”

“You can do anything you put your mind to. I have seen it time and time again. You always prove yourself wrong Stiles. This time is no different.”

Stubborn as a mule, he refused to let the words sink in, Scott sighing at the pinched look on his face.   
“Derek thinks I’m weird, and he runs the entire farm.”

“Peter runs it.”

Scoffing, Stiles toed off his boots, the holes in his socks putting almost half of his toes and one heel on display; a close representation of how much he was holding himself together. “He’s a bureaucrat, sitting in his office. Did you see how clean his uniform was Scott? His boots were gleaming in the sun, that guy doesn’t lift a finger around here except to throw his weight around, so he feels like he’s in charge. His nephew clearly has more influence over the workers.”

“Derek? Why do you think that?” 

Scott always missed the finer details of social interactions, which was fine. He possessed the lions share of the tact in the family which made up for his lack of not seeming to notice anything that was staring him right in the face. It was an interesting balance between the two of them, usually disastrous if they were left without the other. 

“They defer to him, they’re comfortable around him. He’s clearly their appointed leader, he’s probably a damn war hero. Peter seems like a dictator.”

Scott’s eyebrows raised with every word, getting so high they were scrunching up his forehead giving his face this terribly endearing confused puppy look. Stiles huffed in irritation at the familiar face, his brother’s demeanor always making him feel a bit ridiculous for his tirades.   
“You don’t like him.”

“I don’t know him Scott, but I’d be careful. I don’t think he is someone to be trifled with.” He murmured, unable to shake the weird feeling the man had given him at their first meeting. First impressions were a powerful thing, which always made the reaction to his own weigh so much heavier in his mind.

Scott nodded as he absorbed the information, trained from years of this to expect a dissection of their interactions with others when he was around Stiles. The expression on his face was mildly troubled, but they both knew that they were fast running out of options. They would stick this out until something set off alarm bells in Stiles head. It appeared as though it would be tough go, but his instinct had saved their lives before, and Scott trusted it implicitly. 

The conversation hung heavily in the room and they observed their surroundings, the exhaustion of being on the move starting to weigh on them now that they had stopped to breathe. Stiles ran a hand up the back of his neck, his skin itching from a stray hair tickling his neck under his standard issued shirt. The shorn hair felt so alien under his fingers, tickling his palms in a soothing press.   
“I think we should talk more about Derek’s eyes?”

The words cut through the heaviness in the room like magic and Stiles threw himself back onto his cot, groaning loudly as he pressed his hands to his face in humiliation. “Oh my god Scott.” He cried in protest, his face blotching red. “Leave it alone.”

Laughing again, his older brother pushed at his knee in jest, the air in the room lightening in a way that only Scott could conjure up when they were low. Stiles had no idea how he could ever live without him. It would be the first time in their lives that they had slept in separate rooms. They had so rarely been apart that despite always longing for his own space he suddenly felt the childish need to ask Scott to stay. Hearing the sound of his quiet breathing in the night had always been such a comfort to him that he knew it would take a lot to get used to. He didn’t know what he had done to deserve an older brother like him.


	6. Chapter 6

Dinner was an overwhelming affair. The large canteen bustling with people who overflowed into the other rooms, those who could crammed into long tables, huddled together on low benches. The noise seemed amplified in the small space, but few people seemed to notice them as newcomers which was a blessing in disguise.   
Isaac led them to a long sideboard which had a stack of mismatched plates piled on one end. A young woman sat at the table, handing them each a wrapped bundle of cutlery; inspecting the cards that Isaac passed over. 

“These are your id cards, there are a lot of us, and we are still on rations, so it ensures everyone gets their fair share. Also, it will let them know if you have any dietary restrictions, allergies and the like.” He instructed, handing them each a card that had their names printed in neat type. Stiles signed seeing his full name scrawled on the card, anticipating a future of people stumbling over each and every consonant. 

With the restrictions on meat and dairy, the meals they normally had were pulled from everything else that was available. In London they had scrapped by on tinned vegetables and bread, sticking to one meal a day when it was all they could afford. Living on a working farm would certainly have its benefits, though he was sure they would burn this off as off almost as quickly as they could eat it with their workload. 

They shuffled down the line, their plates getting filled with potatoes, carrots, a small slice of beef with a piece of dense looking bread. As much as his stomach had been in knots all day, he heard it growl loudly at the sight. Balancing a mug of tea in his other hand, Scott and him stared out at the room at a bit of a loss until Isaac waved them over to the end of a table. “Take a seat here boys, these two are just finishing up.”

Two women stood up; their hair tied back in handkerchiefs; noses both red from being out in the sun. Stiles nodded at them politely, offering a quiet greeting as they passed; catching Scott’s face as he stared after them. He had seen that look before.  
Nudging his brother with his shoulder, he motioned towards the vacant spaces, afraid with the crowding they would be swallowed up before they could take them. “Did you see that girl?”

Stiles set his dinner down, caring much less about any girl when he had this meal in front of him, but he couldn’t resist indulging Scott, he never could. “Which one? There were two of them.”

“The beautiful one.”

“They were both beautiful.” 

Scott looked gobsmacked, ignoring his meal while Stiles dug in; nearly groaning out loud at the first full meal they had eaten in months.   
Isaac watched them both with interest, eating his own meal slowly as Scott tried to lean back far enough to see around the crowd, probably looking like an idiot.   
“You will both have to put in hours in the kitchen, its mandatory.”

Stiles laughed around a mouthful of bread, forcing it down with a big gulp of water. “My brother shouldn’t be let anywhere near a kitchen.”

The memory of Scott trying to impress their mother by making their evening meal flickered into his mind. They had all done their best to choke down a meal of burnt fish and undercooked parsnips that not even his toothbrush could divulge the taste of. It was a fond memory, that ended in them all laughing around the table; their father patting the young boy on the shoulder proudly for doing his best. 

Memories of his family would always hit him at the strangest times. They always hurt like a kick in the gut, the faces of his mother and father locked up tightly in his mind as he stared at his dinner plate. He thanked whatever was out there that his brother was alive, that they were together. For now this was enough, he knocked his knee into Scott’s briefly, just to know he was there.   
His brothers hand pressed into his shoulder briefly, his plate tipping towards Stiles’ his carrots dropping onto it messily. Huffing out a laugh, he speared his potatoes, pushing them onto the other plate. 

“You two are adorable.” Isaac grinned. 

“So, what our schedule for tomorrow?” Scott asked around a mouth of potato. 

“Until we can train and assign you on something you are both exiled to the kitchen, I’m afraid.”

He didn’t look apologetic in the slightest, he looked smug. Like he was holding onto a laugh. Stiles didn’t even have to look over to know the look on Scott’s face, there was about a zero percent chance he didn’t look like an idiot. This was fine, a bizarre turn of events, but he was good enough at this to carry them through; and hopefully they wouldn’t be thrown out before lunch. At least they weren’t starting in the fields, cutting barley with a scythe or whatever the hell they were supposed to do here. Their London upbringing seemed to be paying them no favours. 

“That will fine, great even.” Stiles interjected, feeling Scott’s foot connect with his shin in protest. Gritting his teeth, he grimaced over at Isaac. “What time do we start.”

“Four am.”

“Fantastic.”

“You can meet the rest of the team down here. They will show you the ropes.” He explained, raising his eyebrows with this stupid smirk that made Stiles hiss under his breath.   
They finished their meals quickly, stacking their empty places on the sideboard with everyone else’s, another group looking like they were in charge of cleanup. They jostled their way up the stairs quickly, Scott hot on his heels, making him rush up the last flight. 

“-Jesus Scott, relax.”

Feeling his body push forward, he grasped his doorknob, his brother pouring in behind him. The door slammed and he had one second to be excited about seeing his new toothbrush on his bed before Scott began his meltdown. “I can’t COOK Stiles.”

“I know that. Its fine, its going to be fine.”

“I’m cursed, every single thing I touch BURNS.”

“Not everything, you made those eggs once.”

“Once Stiles, and mom helped me. A lot!” 

Scott looked panicked and was pacing the short width of the room. Their places had switched. “They will teach us; this is all going to be new. At least we are not, out there in the fields breaking our backs. It will be better than with Aunt Margaret, better by a mile.”

This reminder seemed to deflate him, and he nodded. “I just don’t want to get us kicked out.”

“I would never let that happen.”

“I love you.”

Stiles grinned, shaking his head at him. “I love you too.”

“Is that a toothbrush?”  
Having a split second to brace himself he squawked as Scott jumped over him on the bed, trying to grasp it as Stiles threw his body on top of it. “Get your own.”

After Scott retired into this own room for the night Stiles sat up in bed, watching the branches of the tree sway outside his window as he tried to settle his thoughts. As worried as his brother was about making a bad impression in the kitchen, he knew that it wasn’t him they had to worry about. Terrible or not, Scott always had a way with people. He knew they would get through this, come hell or high water. He didn’t fall asleep for hours, his mind whirling with anxiety as he desperately tried to figure out how to get this right.

Morning arrived before he knew it. The ring of his alarm had him groaning his way into a sitting position, not even bothering with turning on his oil lamp as he dressed purely by feel; pulling on his trousers and shirt before opening the door to the hall, wrapping his knuckles on Scott’s door a few times before walking to the bathroom to clean up. The light of a new day always painted things in a different way, it was a shame there was none to be had as it was still felt like the middle of the night. 

Checking his army issued watch he ran into Scott in the hall, looking like the living dead as he dragged his feet towards him. “I’ll meet you down there.” He yawned.

Walking to the kitchen alone he felt a wave of nerves hit him that he wasn’t quite prepared for. The light from the room was bright enough that it lit up the hall leading up to it, the smell off coffee reminding him so strongly of his father that he had to pause to take a settling breath before he entered the room. 

It was much too early to be greeted with the beauty of two people standing before him. One of the women from the night before turned as he entered; a smile carving dimples into her cheeks as she came forward to greet him. “Hello, my name is Allison Argent.”

Her handshake was firm and confident, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Scott was done for. “I’m glad to meet you Allison, my name is Stiles Stilinski.”

“Stiles? Is that your real name?”

“No, my real name is unpronounceable I’m afraid; and my most closely guarded secret.”

The man spoke out from the corner. “Its on your name badge.”

“Have you met Derek?”

Allison ushered him over to one of the long countertops where the man stood, the angles of his face highlighted in the glow of the lanterns. He nodded once at him smirking, taking a long drink from the mug in his hands. 

“Hello again. We were introduced yesterday on our tour.” He spoke as a greeting and an answer all at once.

“Derek delivers the flour from the mill for us once a week. He has to get up pretty early so we treat him with a pot of coffee, would you like some?”

She was already pouring before he could protest, coffee tending to cause a bit of havoc with his medication; the combination making him practically vibrate within an hour, but it felt rude to object. “Thank you.”

“Where is your brother?” Derek asked, raising an eyebrow as he watched Stiles take a tentative sip of the dark liquid. 

“He will be down here any minute now.”

“What skills are you two aiming to tackle here?”

Not expecting a barrage of questions this early, Stiles set down his mug; getting the distinct feeling that their interaction yesterday had not won him any favor with Peter’s nephew. “I’m not certain yet, but we’re hard workers. We will help wherever we can.”

“I hope that’s true.”

The “for your sake” went unsaid, but the message was clear enough that Stiles’ eyes widened slightly; Derek certainly wasn’t a morning person. As much as he was enjoying this increasingly uncomfortable conversation, he deflated in relief when Scott walked into the room along with an older woman he had never seen. 

“I found this tall drink of water in the hall.” She announced to the room, Stiles liked her instantly. 

Allison laughed as she handed out two more identical mugs of coffee, Scott fumbling it so badly that the dark liquid sloshed over his had and he winced. “I’m so sorry.”  
His face was red as a tomato, despite the winning smile on his face.  
Allison bless her heart tried to diffuse the awkwardness in the room with another round of introductions. “You must be Stiles’ brother Scott; this is Mrs. Nesbitt. She’s been with us since the beginning and owns a farm down the road. She has an apiary that serves the entire county; and award-winning honey.”

“If you count the local fair, which I do.” She said conspiratorially to Stiles, winking at him, taking a sip of her coffee. “And two sweets in one, coffee and a visit from my favourite boy.”

This was a dream come true, despite proving to be a monosyllabic grump; Derek smiled at her in a way that Stiles could only describe as, bashful. It made his heart pound, and he chose not to scrutinize it too closely. 

“It’s good to see you Derek, you look too thin.”

It made him sigh but the smile didn’t move from his face, and he shook his head. “I’m not too thin.”

“I will make you something extra to take with you back to that farmhouse, you don’t eat here enough. What sort of nonsense do you boys cook up in that kitchen? I imagine its tinned beans and nothing else.”

“We eat fine.”

Their conversation carried on, a quick and familiar banter passing between the two of them that made the previous Derek all but unrecognizable. Another person came through the backdoor, looking half awake as she dragged her way into the kitchen; eyes lighting up as she noticed the coffee. “This is my niece Erica.” Mrs. Nesbitt mentioned to the two boys. The group finally seemed to have assembled. She only nodded in response, pouring the last of the coffee in a frankly enormous mug and drinking it down quickly. “She fell asleep in the truck.”

While they were speaking, Allison hauled the large bag of flour onto the countertop with an ease that made Stiles balk. It must have been 50 pounds easy, and he heard a quiet gasp from his brother at the side; certain hearts were exploding out of his eyes. 

Erica tossed the boys two aprons with no more than a sideways glance which they tied on hastily as a stack of bowls followed them on the large wooden table.  
“Wash up everyone, I’m going to teach you how to make bread.”

It turned out that the process was actually quite enjoyable, Stiles had always enjoyed working with his hands, and took to it easily. The physical work was a godsend as the caffeine started to hit his system, his legs rocking him back and forth at his place as he tried to expel his excess energy by kneading the hell out of the dough. Once they had gotten started and it was clear they weren’t going to destroy it, the women moved onto other tasks, bustling around the kitchen with an ease of practice that was quite fascinating to watch. They were clearly a close group. 

Despite standing across from them, Derek hardly spoke a word to anyone other than Mrs. Nesbitt and it was only ever in response. More than once Stiles caught him looking at him with an odd expression, his brow furrowed in a way that confirmed his first interaction with the man would take some time to mend. He was skilled at making bread, his loaves even and smooth while theirs were misshapen and stickier as they loaded them into pans. Even Scott was doing alright, clearly motivated by a desperate desire to please Allison. If Stiles were a betting man, he would say that her name would be the most frequently used word in his brother’s vocabulary from now on. 

“How are you so awake?” Erica grumbled and hour into their shift, watching his quick movements with a sort of jealous derision. It was the first words she had spoken all morning.   
Embarrassment clawed his way up Stiles throat, and he felt his cheeks redden; never able to hide his condition for long. 

“I think our comfortable beds did the trick.” Scott cut in, miraculously hearing them from all the way over by the hearth. “Its amazing what a full night sleep will do to a guy.”  
She seemed to accept his answer with nothing more than a shrug, but he caught Derek’s eye and saw an expression he was all too familiar with.

Having seen it a hundred times on a hundred faces, suspicion.


End file.
